Kathryn searched her entire apartment for the black teddy, including under the bed and beneath the sofa, which gave her an excuse to vacuum. Despite her hangover, the Electrolux wasn’t nearly as loud as The Torykillers had been.
Unfortunately, even after a thorough quest, the Very Expensive Lingerie was nowhere to be found. Admitting defeat, Kathryn printed out some pretty signs on her laserjet and posted them at the locations she and Eleanor had discussed. It was highly embarrassing to admit losing a piece of rather racy underwear, but if it had gotten as far as the laundry room, she would rather have it back and endure the humiliation. She hadn’t put her name on the sign. Just: “Lost. One black net teddy/ bodysuit with spaghetti straps, embroidered with tiny pink roses. Possibly left in laundry room. If found, please return to apartment 9B.”
As she reentered her apartment, the phone was ringing, but Kathryn decided to screen her calls and let the answering machine pick up. Her outgoing message played, followed by the beep. A resonant baritone, with a raspy smoker’s edge to it, started to speak. “This is Eddie Benson. I liked your tape. Would like to meet you. Since you’re a drama teacher, I thought you might like to see a play. I can get theater tickets for something later in the week, if you’re interested.”
Eddie left his phone number, which Kathryn jotted down in her Arden edition of The Taming of the Shrew, since she happened to be re-reading it. She couldn’t view his tape until sometime tomorrow, because Six in the City was off-duty on Sundays. Eddie sounded a bit gruff, but she liked the timbre of his voice.
Kathryn was finally beginning to recover from the hangover from hell. Lighting several aromatherapy candles, as opposed to switching on the lamps, seemed to help immeasurably. She flipped through her CD collection looking for the original cast recording of Kiss Me, Kate, to put herself in the mood while she reviewed The Taming of the Shrew for next week’s class discussion. She was intending to bring up the musical version of the story anyway.
Brewing some tea took her mind off obsessing about the lost lingerie. Maybe it was an omen from the gods that she was going about this dating thing the wrong way. Well, only four more bachelors to go.
Listening to the clever Kiss Me, Kate score while she was waiting for the kettle to boil gave Kathryn an epiphany. Cole Porter. She had wanted to do a production of Porter’s Anything Goes at Briarcliff for the past eight years. Maybe she could do that for the spring production and involve all four grades. Did the school have any crackerjack tap dancers?
While the kettle crowed away, Kathryn started singing “So in Love” at the top of her voice, along with the Lilli Vanessi character on the Kiss Me, Kate recording. Between the teakettle and her own soprano and Patricia Morrison warbling away on the CD, she didn’t hear the doorbell until she turned off the gas on the range and brought her steaming cup of Darjeeling into the living room.
She placed the handcrafted mug on an embroidered coaster and left it on the secondhand mahogany coffee table, then danced over to the door, caught up in the jazzy rhythm of “Tom, Dick and Harry.” She knew she should have asked who was there, but she was into the music; and besides, if it had been a caller from the outside, Tito would have buzzed her over the intercom.
She opened the door, still singing, “I’m a maid mad to marry, and would take double-quick, any Tom, Dick or Harry, any Tom, Harry or Dick. A dick-a-dick, a dick-a-dick . . .”
She went mute. Her face turned a whiter shade of pale. Then it fell. Standing in the doorway, wearing nothing but a pair of skimpy green running shorts and a grin, dangling a familiar piece of finest-quality mesh, was Walker Hart.
“I’m answering a personal ad. So, this must be yours,” he said calmly.
“Oh dear God in Heaven,” Kathryn whispered.
“Not quite,” Walker replied. “I’m only staying in the penthouse.”
“Please tell me you’re joking,” she said, trying to cover her mortification. “And give that back to me!” She made a grab for the teddy, but he swung it out of her reach.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“Oh, my God, of course. Come in. Make yourself at home.” As she led him into the living room, she reached for her teddy again and they played a brief game of cat and mouse until Kathryn went for Walker’s midsection and started to tickle him. He immediately dropped his hands in order to fend her off, and she snatched the teddy out of his grasp, then skittered into the bedroom to deposit the flimsy garment on her bed.
“Well, well, someone is ticklish!” Kathryn called in from the bedroom.
She reentered the room and gasped when she saw Walker making himself at home by sinking into her sofa and resting his feet on a stack of Victoria magazines on the coffee table. “Does your mother let you do that at home?” she asked, adopting her best schoolmarm tone. As a defense mechanism for trying really hard not to stare too hard at his bare chest, it sucked. The man was built. Not buffed, but definitely built.
“You forget. I’m in my momma’s house. She asked me to house-sit while she and daffy Dafydd The Welshman or whatever the hell husband number seven’s name is, are happily honeymooning.”
Kathryn was wondering why she hadn’t noticed it before. Or maybe she had, and she was subconsciously trying not to. What had made her initially think that Walker had a few pounds of cuddliness on him? There were a few ounces, perhaps—just enough to make him appear eminently huggable, as opposed to too lean for a good snuggle. She had been so caught up in the surprise of seeing him half-naked on her doorstep, and then the ensuing embarrassment about the silly piece of lingerie, that she hadn’t stopped to process the half-naked part. This glorious-looking man had invited himself, more or less, into her humble abode, and, shirtless, was now making himself very much at home, fiddling with her remote control. And then there were the well-toned thigh muscles. Kathryn was tempted to squeeze them, just to see if they were as firm as they looked.
“Were you running?” she asked Walker, trying to sound casual.
“Nope.” He wiggled his toes at her. “I just did my laundry and I don’t have a thing to wear,” he added, running a hand through his tousled blond hair in a paraphrased imitation of a TV commercial from some years back. “Anyway, why run when you can catch a great baseball game, or an old movie on TV?” Remote in hand, he flipped through the channels, finally settling on a Star Trek rerun. “Got anything to eat?”
“I don’t permit any polyester in my house, which includes those mustard-colored unitards,” she quipped, gesturing at the television. “So, if you get that sci-fi mumbo-jumbo off my set, I’ll see what I can rustle up.”
Kathryn went into the kitchen. “I was making some tea, before you came—and I’ve got some homemade gingersnaps.”
“Sounds delightful.”
Kathryn put a bunch of her decorated cookies out on a doily, and set it on an old Minton plate, a one-of-a-kind piece that she had found in one of the thrift stores along Third Avenue. She brought the plate out to the living room, and Walker stood up, hooking his thumbs in the elastic waistband of his emerald green running shorts.
“What . . . what are you doing?” she stammered, caught entirely off guard.
“You said you didn’t permit any polyester in your apartment, so I thought I’d better remove these, to not risk offending my gracious hostess.”
“Please don’t do that,” she insisted, waving her hand at him, dreadfully intrigued that he actually might undress. “I’ll suffer the indignities to my sartorial sensibilities.” If the man were truly gutsy and doffed the skimpy shorts, she might have to be anesthetized in order to keep away from him. “Besides,” she added, offering him a cookie, “you were Flirting with Intent. Very bad form. We have sort of a doctor-patient, lawyer-client relationship thing here. You’re supposed to be guiding me toward my destiny— which is, in paragraph four of my contract with Six in the City, allegedly to be provided in the form of five eligible bachelors, each of whom supposedly wants the same things I want out of life.”
> He nodded. “ ‘Flirting with Intent.’ I like that. I plead ‘no contest.’ Sorry. It was unintentional.”
“ ‘All is forgiven: come home.’ Isn’t that a funny phrase? My parents always used to say that to Ellie and me when we were kids and did something naughty.”
“ ‘Come home’? Okay, then.” He scrunched back down on her sofa, making himself comfy in the plushy velvet upholstery.
“You’re doing it again.” Kathryn shook her head and perched on the arm of the couch. Bear was certainly one of a kind. Yet there was something about him. He was very easy to be with. Just having him in the apartment, Kathryn felt a sense of security and stability she had never before experienced. The more she thought about it, the more she defined the feeling. This was it—the elusive sensation she wanted to capture and bottle so she could mete out a little bit of warmth for herself on those days when she was feeling lonely, or blue, or premenstrual.
Of course she wanted to touch him, explore him. In fact Kathryn was dying to find out what it would feel like to be given a Bear hug, but even if her wish were granted, she had enough self-awareness to realize that it would totally mess up her head. She could lose herself with a man as much fun as Walker—witty and warm, maybe even wise—but they wanted different things. She had a goal; a specific place where she wanted a relationship to end up. He seemed to prefer women who would hop on for the ride and not worry about where they were going or how long it was taking to get there. Kathryn used to be that sort of woman. A few years ago, Bear Hart would have been perfect dating material for her; but now, her priorities had shifted. It irked her that people made her feel uncomfortable about her desire to hear the words, “Kathryn Lamb, will you marry me?” which then might lead to a consideration of having children somewhere not too far down the line. Or not.
“Cookie!” he exclaimed, in perfect imitation of the fuzzy blue monster with the googly eyes from Sesame Street. He put two gingersnaps in his mouth at once and crunched until the crumbs spilled over his chin. “Hey, what are these, anyway?” Walker reached for one of the remaining cookies and examined it. “Is this a cat?” he asked, chomping away.
“I guess your mother was too busy matchmaking to teach you not to talk with your mouth full,” Kathryn teased. The teacher-tone was her defense against letting her guard down too far with him. He already had the makings of a great friend, but that was as far as she could let it go. Just looking at his bare chest was raising her blood pressure and tempting her to consider rescinding her application to Six in the City in favor of a recreational romp with the boss. “Yes, they’re cats. See?” She traced the shape along the perimeter of the cookie. “It’s arching its back.” She permitted one or two more indecent images to cross her mind.
“Cat cookies. Very feminine,” Walker appraised, as he popped her demo-cookie into his mouth.
“I do that sort of thing,” she said. “I make batches at different times of the year and cut out shapes that are right for the season. These are my personal favorites, though. I thought cats were autumnal.”
“I thought they were autobiographical,” Walker replied, patting the plump sofa cushion for her to join him. She gave him an odd look. “Kitty. Kittycat. And I suppose you make lambs at Easter.”
“Of course.” She plopped down on the sofa and grabbed a cookie.
“I like the fact that you gave them green eyes. Like yours.” He looked at her. “Wait a minute, weren’t those green the last time I saw you?”
“They might have been. Depends on what I’m wearing.”
“None of those weird E.T.-like contact lenses?”
Kathryn gestured at her book-lined walls. “Nope. Never needed ’em. I’ve read most of these without the aid of artificial stimulation. No, my eyes are probably brownish now because of this sweater,” she said, referring to the cinnamon-colored velvet tunic she was wearing over her leggings. “And sometimes, they’re blue.”
“They were when you wore that light blue sweater, the day we met.”
She nodded. “And other times,” she added suggestively, smiling cryptically like the Mona Lisa. “But then, I’ve been told they turn almost indigo. It’s an odd trick of nature. I’ve never actually seen them change that way— but . . . I’ve been told. It’s been . . . a while . . . since they’ve been . . . that way.” She shifted the subject, awkwardly. “Remember mood rings?”
“Those stones that changed color depending on your body temperature? Black for cold; blue for hot. Sure. I actually owned one.”
Kathryn looked surprised. “I did too. But I never knew a guy who had one.” She had a feeling that Walker’s natural warmth and passion rendered his mood ring perennially blue, but she steered away from commenting on it. Besides, this was the man to whom she had given five hundred somolians to professionally fix her up with the ephemeral “Mr. Right for Me.” She realized she didn’t particularly want him to leave her apartment. He’d ensconced himself on her comfy couch for all of ten minutes, and she was liking it. A lot more than she really wanted to.
She needed to create some distance between them. “I can’t believe your mother is the schnook who bought the penthouse.”
Walker blinked. “Why?” he asked cautiously.
Kathryn nibbled on a gingerbread cat’s ear. “It seems there have always been problems with the flashing or the pointing, or something building contractors do to roofs to make sure they don’t leak. For some reason, it acts like it’s made of balsa wood. Apparently, even the slightest drizzle can cause a leak, if the wind is right—or wrong— and when the penthouse was a rental, it was up to the landlord to fix it at his expense. When the building converted from rental to co-ops, any problems with the ceiling leaking, or plaster peeling, or the walls staining, became the tenant’s headache.”
“So I guess that makes Rushie a prime candidate for Excedrin.”
“Or you. You betcha. Had any problems yet?”
Walker didn’t feel like admitting the truth. “I noticed some rusty stains on the wall a while back, so the building sent some workmen in and they seem to have cleaned it up. They certainly billed me for it. I didn’t notice the discoloration the day I moved in,” he added honestly. “Rushie is never around enough to bother with details like falling ceilings. When the going gets rough, the Rushie goes honeymooning. Besides, she’s never liked asking the tough questions. She’s deathly afraid of negativity—literally terrified that someone will disappoint her. Including me. Most especially me.”
“She asked me plenty of tough questions. That’s how I ended up enrolling with your dating service in the first place. Anyway,” Kathryn added skeptically, “Maude Fixler could sell the Manhattan Bridge to the Topeka City Council.”
“I’m sure it never occurred to Mom to ask about the structure of the masonry. And if it had, she would have been scared of what she might hear. Owning a penthouse to her is the pinnacle of Manhattan elegance. This is a woman who grew up in a basement apartment in Brooklyn.”
“Well, I’m sure she’s got an amazing view and immodestly large rooms for a modern high-rise, but I hope you or your mother knows a really good plumber who makes house calls. And a plasterer, and a painter, and that you guys don’t hang anything of value on the walls. And that you don’t have expensive deep-pile carpeting everywhere to soak up the damage like a thirsty camel.”
“Yes to some of the above. There’s some pricy stuff on the walls because Rushie wanted her home to look ‘important,’ and I know I overpaid for the plushy carpet. I also don’t know any professional tradesmen.”
“I’ll bet you have clients who work with their hands.”
“I never thought of that.” Walker stroked his jaw, something Kathryn noticed he did whenever he was just a touch perplexed, and didn’t seem quite sure what to say next. He reached for another cookie, but his hand landed on the edge of the plate, popping the gingersnaps into the air. “I’m so sorry! I’ll pick them up.”
“It’s okay,” Kathryn said dismissively. “They’ve onl
y been on the floor a little while.” She retrieved two ginger cookies from the carpet and pretended to blow off some lint.
Walker looked embarrassed that Kathryn had tried to make light of his clumsiness, so he swiftly switched the subject of conversation. “Well, if I wake up in the middle of the night thinking I’m in third-class steerage on the Titanic, I’ll come pounding on your door, requesting sanctuary,” he said with a forced cheeriness.
“You’ll get a dry blanket—if you’re lucky, my grandmother’s hand-knitted afghan—and a cup of hot soup. If it’s really the middle of the night, you can find your own blanket and make your own soup. And by the way, you’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Flirting with Intent. You’ve already taken five hundred dollars of my hard-earned money. You’re not allowed to consider breaking my heart.”
“Right,” he responded uncomfortably. “Kitty, I hope you know I would never break your heart. Not intentionally, anyway,” he added, almost inaudibly.
“Bear?”
“Yeah?”
Kathryn bit her lip, then changed the subject. She was thinking about saying something along the lines of acknowledging their mutual attraction—putting it out there on the table—but decided not to pursue it any further. “So when do I get a tour of Xanadu?”
“Right now, if you want. But I warn you. Your apartment is sort of a study in scarlet, and Rushie’s is more . . . well, you’ll see it.”
Kathryn grabbed her house keys and locked the door behind her. They took the elevator to the penthouse floor, and Walker unlocked his door. The first thing that caught Kathryn’s eye was the view. The entire west wall of the living room, which was the first room she saw after he opened the door, was glass.
“After you, my lady.” Walker gestured to Kathryn to precede him into the apartment. Kathryn didn’t know what to make of it. She was blown away by the vista and by the gleaming ebony finish on the baby grand piano, which commanded the most prominent spot in the room, elevated on a carpeted platform. But the penthouse looked like it was inhabited by someone who’d had his soul excised at birth. Smoked glass and tubular chrome. Black leather, and boring beige wall-to-wall carpeting. It could have been a luxury suite at a five-star hotel. Expensively, but impersonally, furnished. The one reassuringly personal touch was a pair of oddly matched socks, lying on the floor at the edge of a coffee table shaped like something you’d find undergoing mitosis in a petri dish.
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